Lady
by belly.buttons
Summary: It wasn't her war, but she fought it for him.


_In the smoke-filled world where the jokes are cold_

_They don't laugh at jokes_

_They laugh at tragedy._

* * *

It was in her fourth year at Hogwarts that Narcissa Black had met Lucius Malfoy. Ever-so-charming with a tongue as blindingly silver-white as his hair, she had fallen for him hard. He was a year older than her, and Bellatrix took great joy in assuring her that a boy like him would never notice the quiet baby Black. She was effectively shut up, however, when Lucius asked said quiet baby Black to Hogsmeade.

Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop was stifling that tenth of May, and the fact that Lucius hated the lovey-dovey couple trap didn't help. But he bore it because of the slight flush that her cheeks got when he talked to her. They sat, pink heart-shaped biscuits and cups of tea untouched before them, and their conversation was deathly awkward until Amadeus Parkinson tried to make a move on Lydia Frances and ended up with a face full of boiling water. They laughed loudly along with the rest of the tea shop's occupants, and their mutual amusement gave Lucius the confidence to strike up a real conversation, which lasted well into the night. By the time they walked back to the castle hand-in-hand, it was safe to say that they were thoroughly infatuated.

By her sixth year and his seventh, it was simply seen as a fact of life that Narcissa Black and Lucius Malfoy would get married and have the kind of fairytale romance that most girls would die for. And in July of 1973, standing before Lucius in an expensive white dress that could only be expected of a Black, Narcissa couldn't help but be thankful for Amadeus Parkinson's rotten lady skills.

But their romance turned out to be much less than fairytale. Certainly, they were as star-crossed as lovers come, but the on nights spent waltzing to a non-existent beat as star-crossed lovers do, the air was permeated with a sense of worry and regret that most families could relate to during that time. He had delved into a cause whose extremist views dug far deeper than his own, and in marrying him she had been dragged along for the ride. The death and destruction that Lord Voldemort caused manifested an ideal that was far more intense than her own. And she knew better to believe all her husband's talk; through its transparency she could see that he was terrified, too.

She had no connections to this side of the war other than him. She could leave as easily as she had been introduced; she could skip out in the night and adopt a fake identity, perhaps migrate to South America or some other country untouched by this war. But love had burrowed its greedy talons right into her heart, and she stuck with him throughout the horrors. After the Dark Lord's first fall, Narcissa faced the practical destruction of the Noble and Most Ancient House of Black through its affiliation with him with a straight face, and she supported her husband's lies even though some niggling part of her conscience begged her to do what was right.

She brought her son up in a way that she would rather had not, instilling the same views that had nearly destroyed his father, all because she buried her fears in the empty hope that it was harmless because his destructor would not rise again. And when he inevitably did, she donned her façade again. She went the motions that a woman of the Dark Arts must. It was not her war, but she would fight it for Lucius. Somewhere deep inside, she hoped that maybe he would leave behind his dangerous tendencies and turn again into the young boy who had once snuck through her bedroom window just to give her a midnight kiss. But she of all people knew that Voldemort irrevocably twisted the sweetest teenagers into the cruelest adults, and she chided herself for her childish hopes. And still she stayed beside her husband.

Sometimes, though, a mother's love extends far further than a wife's devotion. Her son was just sixteen when he was pulled into his father's mess, and she knew all too well what he could turn into if he was not saved. So she begged, and when that did not work she snapped herself out of her delusions and saw Lucius's side of the war for what it really was.

The years came and went, the death toll mounting higher than it had ever been, and now Narcissa was smothered by the knowledge that just underneath their sleeves, father and son's skin bore matching tattoos. It ate at her, slowly deteriorating what semblance of sanity she had left after two long decades of dealing with the emotional anarchy the Dark Lord had unleashed within her, and by the time the war was nearing its end she feared only for the small part of Draco that had been left uncorrupted. So she lied to the master that she had adopted but had no loyalty to, and in that way ensured her son's safety but condemned her husband. She no longer cared. Fourteen-year-old Narcissa had deceived herself into believing that love could conquer all, but forty-three year old Narcissa was a star-crossed lover no more. She had lied, she had killed, and she had sold a part of her soul just to keep adolescent fantasies alive.

And as fifty-one year old Narcissa read about the death of Lucius Malfoy by Dementor's Kiss, she wondered if it was worth it.

* * *

_Well, there's that. The song at the top is from one of my favourite songs by my very favourite artist, Lady by Regina Spektor. I highly suggest you check it out. I debated exchanging it with 'You are my sweetest downfall' from Samson or 'They made it past the enemy lines, just to become enslaved in the assembly lines' from Blue Lips, but I think those lines were the most relevant. You're lovely for reading this, so up your loveliness points by reviewing, yeah?_

_xx, Ariel Josephine_


End file.
